


Tales From The Coffeshop

by illegible



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Valentine's Day Fic Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22359226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illegible/pseuds/illegible
Summary: There is a café near Anyder University. A writer, chronicling the journeys of her imagination, has made it her second home.She is not the only one.
Relationships: Elidibus/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Lahabrea/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 30
Kudos: 48
Collections: Valentine's Fic Exchange 2020





	1. WRITER OF LIGHT

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TenkeyLess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenkeyLess/gifts).



> Part of a Valentine's Day fic exchange! There are a few people I'd like to thank, the first being TenkeyLess for making such brilliant prompts that have been a pleasure to work on. I also want to thank JanuaryBlue, who straight up provided a few lines for this while I was planning stuff out at an ridiculous hour. And finally, I'd like to make a special thanks/shout out to BlackJacketsandPens and Redbudtree. These two mentioned the concept of Lahabrea as a coffee cryptid to me in passing, and while I didn't hear much more than that the premise lingered and grew at the back of my mind until this popped out.

The Phoenix Down Roastery has carved a comfortable niche out for itself. With Main Tank focused on quick, hard-hitting caffeine and Nophica’s Cup regularly overwhelmed by hipsters, having somewhere independent but not too expensive to attend suits our hero well. The walls are painted a rusty orange balanced against decor that tends toward black and cream. The owner clearly decided to cultivate a modern aesthetic here, all clean edges with the occasional sofa or lounge chair for patrons to compete over. With Anyder University so close at hand there is never a shortage of students (or staff) peppering the air with conversation against backdrops of muzak.

It is also frequented by one successful (if incognito) author. A petite, observant young woman with mousy brown hair—she forgoes her love of glamour for more discreet approaches. Somebody who listens more than she speaks, the winner of Ul’dah’s Golden Cactaur Award for up-and-coming series has penned her beginning for a collection dubbed _The Champion of Light_. These are, naturally, fantasy novels chronicling all manner of gods and beasts. A standard enough subject by itself. What sets these works apart is their preference for wry commentary throughout. No monstrosity, regardless of reputation, is safe.

As it stands she comes here to watch, and to find inspiration, and to write.

***

Normal customers may request a _doppio_. Those of questionable judgment might request two.

Lahabrea, esteemed professor of phantomology and the oratory arts, regularly orders what has been dubbed (with no small amount of horror) a _sette_.

Every day, primarily in the mornings but with odd visits as hours pass, he shuffles his way to the counter. There is something unnatural in the shadows lurking beneath his eyes, the ragged state of his hair, the just off-kilter black jacket that on anyone else might have looked professional.

He has never left their establishment before swallowing at least seven shots of espresso.

“Come again?” the new barista asks, hands hovering over the register as she turns.

Lahabrea looks at her but does not see. He has reached a state untouchable to impatience or malice, divorced from the world which surrounds him.

He repeats himself.

At first, this is met with silence.

Then, the poor creature squeaks, “Are you sure?”

None of the others have dared ask such questions. They wait with bated breath, unsure what consequences will unfold.

For some time, Lahabrea stares with an impossible stillness. In the distance, a butterfly flaps its wings.

Rumor poses that the man died from his regimen long ago but his body has yet to figure this out. Others speculate that were it feasible he would skip the middleman and inject caffeine directly into his veins. Alas, he has yet to accomplish such a feat. 

And so (for the time being) he ingests.

“Just fuck me up,” says Lahabrea without intonation, his pale and sightless gaze unwavering. These words with their empty expression will haunt the barista’s nightmares for months to come.

Later, they will tell her that there was a time during finals when Lahabrea ordered a refill. None doubt that it will happen again. When this occurs they need only remember their role and obey, as has been their fate since before the stars themselves were born.

“Should we try to stop him?” whispers the new blood. Veteran staff, accustomed as they are to mysteries of this plane, shake their heads.

“Lahabrea is more coffee than man at this point,” they explain. “Deprived of sustenance he may well cease to exist. His very being defies god and nature.”

They let him be.


	2. ELIDIBUS

Growing up, Elidibus never would have imagined that he would become a professor of political science and negotiation. Like most children we can safely assume he had dreams in phases. The most notable of these included professions such as “spy”, “astronaut”, and “warlord”. When peers told him (with congratulations and pats on the back) that this was the kind of job they always envisioned for him, he reacted as if they’d grown a second head.

He leads a simple life, these days. At precisely half past nine every morning he enters the Phoenix Down Roastery. Gets in line. Orders a plain latte of medium size. Sits at a table near the wall to drink. By nine thirty-four he’s usually gone.

Elidibus is, to his own eyes, unremarkable. Fair haired, favoring grays and browns over anything more dramatic. A gentle jawline. Almost average height.

He would not have guessed, if asked, that anyone noticed him.

And then, just like that, his routine is disrupted.

The woman is already in line when he gets there. If he had to choose a word to describe her, it would not be “trustworthy”. Blue eyes spark with mischief and her mouth is bare as it twists upward.

They wait side-by-side for their orders. He wasn’t paying attention to hers, but when it arrives he finds himself aghast in the presence of an abomination. Some kind of blended drink, green with interruptions of chocolate. Whipped cream, ribbons of what might be caramel, sprinkles, granules of sugar, and _marshmallows_ bump against the domed lid.

Elidibus gets a latte.

“You’re very boring, you know,” says the Writer of Light.

“Excuse me?” says Elidibus. Though his intonation doesn’t change, he holds his drink slightly closer to his chest.

“You heard me,” she replies, impish. “Look at yourself. You have so many options, right in front of you, and _that’s_ what you pick?” Her lips twitch. “Have you tried anything new in your entire life?”

“I am not,” says the professor, perhaps a bit stiffly, “particularly curious about diabetes.”

***

Even so, he gets hazelnut the next day.

The Writer makes eye contact with him across the room and grins. She does not roll her eyes and she does not smirk. Elidibus recognizes the ruse.

A fool might argue that she seems genuinely thrilled at his decision to venture beyond his comfort zone. In truth, she celebrates with triumph that even when her target makes a concession to spontaneity it is _negligible_. Hazelnut is a perfectly sane, respectable flavor. He remains rote as he has ever been and she can preen in the confidence of victory.

This is unacceptable.

And so, like the man of coffee adventure he aspires to be, Elidibus sets to trying a new flavor every day. These have no sequence, no reason to their combinations beyond what reactions they might provoke.

Because the Writer’s expressions are beginning to shift. What initially might have passed for simple joy first turns questioning, then amused, then downright appalled. Elidibus revels in this addition to his routine, finds himself puzzling through the day what combination might inspire a particularly notable response.

He makes a point of maintaining perfect eye contact and neutral composure as he drinks the concoctions in front of her.

At some point Elidibus realizes, faintly, that he is _messing with her_. It isn’t something he can bring himself to regret.

And then, one day, before he can say a word the barista hands him something familiar.

“It’s been paid for,” she says with a smile.

Green. Chocolate and caramel and whipped cream and sprinkles. Sugar. _Marshmallows_.

Across the café, the Writer holds a beverage to match. Waggles her fingers.

He lifts the cup. A number has been scrawled on the side. It is addressed to diabetes.

_I do not fear weakness or disease, but you…_

Behind him, Lahabrea orders ten shots. He leans half-collapsed across the counter. The barista is concerned. He holds up both hands, fingers extended for counting.

Repeats himself.

Diabedibus brings his own cup to his mouth. Curls his lips around the straw and sips before slowly making his way toward the Writer of Light.


	3. EMET-SELCH

Emet-Selch, who we may recognize as history professor and partner to a certain celebrated novelist, considers himself a man of taste. 

Exquisite taste, to be more precise. A coffee connoisseur who looks every bit the part with a dark, expensive coat and designer sunglasses. The hair that frames his face remains mostly brown. Tall and angular, someone with less control might have proved gawky. Emet-Selch (worldly as he is) shows himself to be graceful.

As a man of tremendous efficiency and sense, he habitually takes it upon himself to claim a table while his lover stands in line. Her own preferences notwithstanding, she knows his palette. Exotic brews are his coffee of choice, prepared via the clover machine in accordance to what has been made newly available. Limsa Lominsa tends to boast a subtle, nutty flavor. Doma leans toward spices while Meracydia comes across as fruity to varying extremes. Any roast, Emet-Selch understands, can be used to accentuate an accompanying dish or vice versa. It is a subtle dance only the most refined of palettes can detect.

Among his other titles Emet-Selch might even fancy himself, privately, a _scholar_ of coffee. 

Syrups are for heathens.

Naturally, the Writer of Light has been including them in his orders for years.

And then one day, motivated by sheer curiosity—she stops.

***

It is immediately apparent that some catastrophe has occurred. He nearly spits the swill out.

Face screwed in disgust, sputtering incoherently, he stands.

“What happened?” asks Emet-Selch, before beckoning to a blissfully distracted barista. _“What is this?”_

“Emet?” says the Writer, beyond questioning as her boyfriend stands and quickly makes his way to the bar.

“Excuse me,” he says, at last commanding attention, “but was this hand-picked by ethically paid orphans in Ala Mhigo or not?"

And then, just as the poor boy begins to stammer his way through apologies, it hits.

Emet-Selch’s eyes go wide.

This.

Is an assassination attempt.

Coffee is not meant to taste like this.

Somebody… probably the professor of Allagan studies he embarrassed, is trying to poison him.

Emet-Selch had done his thesis on the Allagan Empire. Despite focusing his own curriculum on modern Garlemald, when it came to his attention how dated how—how _inane_ his colleague’s publications on the subject were, he. He couldn’t resist demonstrating as much to his own students.

His brilliance has ever been his doom.

(The Writer of Light has, in fact, resisted _several_ bribes, threats, and even proposals of marriage offered to her in return for poisoning Emet-Selch’s coffee. Short of such drastic measures, the would-be saboteurs begged her to spit in it at the very least.

“Why would… you know, that’s kind of hot,” Emet-Selch had said, upon having this information relayed to him.

The Writer, her expression a unique combination of incredulity, affection, and exasperation borne of extensive experience in such matters, had presence enough to ask, “Why can’t you just kiss me like a normal person?”

When he started to laugh in the face of her proposal, she’d put her point into action instead.)

Behind Emet-Selch, as the various achievements and missteps of his life blaze through his mind, another trial is underway.

Lahabrea sits silently at a table near the wall. There is an empty cup before him. This cup is the largest one they have in the store. It is no longer full. Once, not so very long ago, it was.

He hasn’t said anything for some time.

He stares at the empty cup as he has been staring at it for as long as can be remembered. Perhaps he witnesses the secrets of the universe itself inside.

“Should… should we call a hospital?” one of the baristas asks.

“It’s almost been an hour,” says another, “he can make it.”

The Writer slips Emet-Selch’s cup from him silently during an instant of mortal terror. She has a word with the clerk who adds first one, then another pump of artificial flavoring. Only then, with a gentle pat on the back of his wrist, does she return it to her partner’s hands.


	4. LAHABREA

Yet again, Lahabrea enters the coffee shop.

Nobody makes eye contact with him. This is not unusual. He fails to notice or distinguish these strange half-men that surround him with their “lattes” and their “frappes”. They are mere obstacles in his path, to be navigated as all other obstacles must be.

He has barely found his place in line, the same place he always finds, when suddenly.

In place of the cardboard that so regularly makes its home there, cold finds his fingertips.

Lahabrea looks down.

Four hands. Two belong to him. Two do not. He counts them. He always counts them, carefully, more than once. 

Between the hands that belong to him and those that do not rests a plastic cup. Filled. Transparent.

The Writer meets his gaze.

Lahabrea realizes, belatedly, that this is water. Cold has become a temperature he cannot recognize, a temperature that burns in a way that leaves him numb and slightly damp.

“You seem like you could use it,” this strange creature tells him.

There are tears rolling down his face.

He nods.

He closes his hands around the cup. It must not fall.

His tears are caffeinated (how could they be otherwise) but perhaps before the sun explodes and the earth itself blinks from memory, this too will fade.

“Do you want… a straw?”

Lahabrea can’t stop nodding. He wonders if he should be alarmed.

Words are tumbling forth from his lips. He is saying things. He says these things because he is The Speaker. He isn’t sure what what he says, only that he is Speaking. As he should be. As he has always done.

Someone places a hand, not unkindly, over his mouth.

It lingers there for a moment.

It is not coffee. Even so, he parts his lips against the touch.

When it goes he finds himself briefly bereft.

Such things are fleeting, however. He knows not whether it rises by his will or another's or its own, but plastic enters his mouth.

(Is this “straw”?)

He can’t remember tasting plastic before. It tastes like something, and this itself proves alien to him. Lahabrea cannot remember what it is to taste. He cannot remember a time when he could. All that remains is the constant burn and thrum which regularly settles, buzzing, from the pit of his stomach to his chest as caffeine seeps into his very essence. He has become coffee itself, stained to his core. Tempered, if you will, in every aspect of his identity.

The plastic is more natural than anything he can remember. Like a forgotten childhood, if in fact he has ever been a child.

When the Writer takes him by the elbow and leads him to a table, he follows. Obedient. In this chair, in this cafe, with the straw between his lips and water pouring down his cheeks and his throat in one continuous motion, he wonders if this is a religious experience.

Lahabrea drinks.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're looking for fresh inspiration and a positive, reliable environment I absolutely recommend hopping over to _Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched and Enabling Bookclub!_ It's an incredible discord and I feel hugely lucky to be a part of it. The group can be found [here](https://discord.gg/bNaqRtc).


End file.
